Keeping Haus
by Slow Motion Outlaw
Summary: A series of drabbles about the world's most brutal band and its equally brutal manager. Includes a variety of humour/fluff/slash/family/angst themes. T for regulation Dethklok behaviour, language and slash.
1. Managerial Transfer

**Managerial Transfer**

**Rating****: **T (Language)

**Characters: **The Dethklok boys

**Setting/Spoilers:** Set sometime after _'Renovationklok'_. References to and spoilers for '_Dethsources_' (Season 2, Episode 14)

* * *

"See, I _tells _you! No cameras ams fasts enough to sees me play" Swissgar scoffed, pointing lazily at the screen.

Needless to say, it was a slow afternoon at Mordhaus; the newest album had just been released and their last tour had gone off with the usual amount of carnage and mayhem. All and all, it had been a success, and Dethklok now found themselves in the strange lull of activity that often came after.

"Woah, wait, go back one."

Eager to prove his claims, Swissgar had scanned Dethklok's official website for photos of their performances, causing a somewhat nostalgic review of bloody and chaotic days gone by. As the band crowded around the laptop, Nathan pointed to the top corner of the screen, just above Swissgar's guitar. A small shadow appeared to be plummeting to the ground from a great height, limbs flailing wildly.

"Brutal."

With a click they zoomed in.

"Isn't that...uh, Melmord?"asked Nathan, squinting at the screen.

"Pfft, cant be's." The world's fastest guitar player snatched the mouse and scrolled across, "The robots says he ams a pedjophiles in jails."

"Yeah, a Pellofiles!" echoed Toki. "...What ams a pellofile?"

"Dood, look!" Pickles waved his bottle excitedly at the computer, "Ya can see the guy that pushed 'im!"

Their long-suffering couch groaned in protest as each member leaned in and slowly examined the attacker. He looked like something off their album covers; a bloodthirsty warrior with murder in his eyes, his tarnished sword ready to carve through the enemy. Partially silhouetted by the moon, he stood at the edge, watching his opponent fall. The exceptionally metal atmosphere was an odd contrast to the neat suit, broken glasses and blood red tie that flapped about the victor's neck. Nathan felt his jaw drop.

"Hey! It's the lawyer mans!" cried Toki, pleased with himself and completely missing the point.

Pickles dropped his drink, icecubes and lemon slices scattering everywhere, "Holy shit! Affdensen killed Melmahrd!"

Only Murderface didn't seem too phased by the revelation.

"Looks like the robot goes pretty batschit crazy when someone tries to muschle in on his paperwork, eh?" he commented offhandedly, commandeering the laptop to ogle some more groupies.

There was an awkward pause.

"Errrr.... guys, weren't _we _kind of, uh ...doing his job for a while?"

* * *

**Slow Motion Outlaw's Chat Time: **Thought I'd start off this series of drabbles with something a bit funny, or weird, depending on your sense of humour. I could totally see the boys finding out and totally missing the point. You might have guessed that Offdensen is one of my favourite characters by the way I go all poetic fangirl at one part... I hope my characterisations OK and the dialects aren't too jarring.

I love to hear reader's opinions on my stuff, reviews are greatly appreciated! Next up: Piggybacks and after-show naps.


	2. Shamrock

**Rating**: T

**Characters/Pairing**: Toki, Pickles

**Warnings**: Language, diabetes-inducing fluff

**Disclaimer**: Yes, I don't own Metalocalypse, and that's probably for the best. Or _Spinal Tap_, although you won't need to see the movie to get the reference.

* * *

Pickles leant back on his bed, staring at the ceiling with a distant grin on his face as he watched thick cigarette smoke curl away in strange patterns. Sometimes, it was just this simple shit; like a midnight cigarette or the perfect solo, that was the stuff that stayed with you, no matter how rich and fucked up you got.

A banging on the door brought him back to the present day. He propped himself up on one elbow and did a quick scan for anything outstandingly illegal or breakable.

"S'Open!"

Toki poked his head around the door, the drummer exhaled a deep sigh of relief and smoke; he'd been worried Murderface wanted to run another Planet Piss catastrophe by him or Swissgar had come in search of a wandering GMILF. His guest jumped on the bed, nimbly avoiding the concealed beer bottles and careful to hide whatever was behind his back.

"Watch'a got there, chief?"

"I made you somethings, Pickle!"

"Yeah?" He couldn't help but grin a little as he noticed a trail of dried pasta on the blankets. The kid could drive them all mad, but he had his moments.

"You remembers how we was watchin' dat movies last nights? And theres was the band, like us but nots brutal? And they has the drummers whats keep dying? Like the guy who gots spunktaneously comfusted?"

He nodded the affirmative, mystified as to where this was going. Pickles hated '_This is Spinal Tap'._ Sure, those guys were just washed-out douchebags, but there was a little bit too much of a Snakes and Barrels flavour to it. He'd been the lucky one there; gotten a second chance in Dethklok.

"Well, I don't wants yous to spunktantiously comfust like thems, Pickle. Not evers!" Toki shook his head vigourously. The mysterious increase in fire extinguishers he'd chalked down to weed-induced paranoia was starting to make sense. "So I mades you this!"

Toki held a battered piece of paper up, little bits of macaroni falling off in his excitement. The paper was buckling under the sheer weight and volume of the pasta. Pickles thought it was some sort of green flower or something.

"It's one of them magical flowers what gives you good luck!" he explained, proudly.

Pickles doubted the Norwegian had ever actually seen a four-leafed clover, but it was a good try. He grinned, throwing an arm around his bandmate and putting it up to the light, pretending to survey it with an experienced eye. Toki looked on excitedly.

"Well, this looks like a preehtty lucky clover t'me." He tilted his head, closing one eye. Toki did the same. " Yep. Havn't seen one this lucky in a while! "

"Wowee!"

Toki looked up at him, giving him the sort of beaming smile even top-grade drugs couldn't reproduce. He hid his own smile behind the cigarette, pretending to study the picture some more.

"Y'know, I reckon I should be pretty safe now."

Toki all but skipped out of the room, all fears of spontaneous combustion apparently forgotten. Locking the door, the redhead knelt down next to his personal liquor cabinet. The cupboard took up the better part of an entire wall. Nimble fingers scrabbled under the polished wood of one draw, pulling up a false bottom. Some battered Snakes and Barrels album covers, a small packet of photos, a splintering drumstick, a golden locket and an empty bottle of Jack, all accounted for, all bringing back the few things he didn't want to forget. Taking a deep drag of his cigarette he pored over the beat-up treasures, and carefully added the macaroni picture to the mismatched collection.

Yeah, sometimes it was that simple shit, like your first album or macaroni clovers, that stayed with you, no matter how rich and fucked up you where.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Sort of a little St. Patty's Day thing that had been rolling around in my head for a while now. Very unmetal, I know.


	3. Robot

**Rating**: T

**Characters/Pairing**: Nathan/Charles

**Warnings**: Language, blood

**Disclaimer**: Yes, I don't own Metalocalypse, much to the relief of the world at large.

* * *

It's not the first time Nathan's fallen asleep in Charles' chair, waiting for his manager to get back from who the hell knows where. But it's the first time he' seen him before the usual cleanup. The desktop is littered with bottles and food wrappers. He knows that'll piss Charlie off a bit, but he deserves it, because it's two in the morning and he's tired, and so God... damn... angry... that someone can make him feel this bad. He should be out celebrating with the band.

The doors swing open, and a dark figure storms in, surrounded by a task force of hooded men. The Elite Guard. His right hand men. The Originals. The blood seems to still be dripping off their black uniforms, mixing with the puddles of rainwater forming on the expensive carpet. Ofdensen's not wearing his glasses tonight, and he hasn't bothered to conceal the scar running down his cheek. He's no less filthy than his soldiers, perhaps even more so. A long, black coat hangs about his shoulders, making him look larger, and he sharply orders the Klokateers out. He's still wearing that crimson tie though; it reminds Nathan of the bells people put on cats, and how they always learn to stalk silently. There's no slightly nervous, awkward look. No umming or ahhing. Tonight he's a robot. No, worse than that, the singer decides, because a robot doesn't _enjoy_ its work. He's all for brutal, for metal, for gore, for madness, Hell, he doesn't even care that much when it happens to _him_ but this... It's not metal. It's not brutal.

His life is dysfunctional. He understands that. But it's when the figure stalks towards him, blood still spattered across his cheek, lips twisted in a predatory smile, that Nathan begins to feel, for perhaps the first time that he's out of his depth. Come morning, he'll wake up with Charlie curled up against his chest, a man who gets excited about profit margins and has the patience of a saint, and he'll make everything alright again. But tonight, he's looking a bloodstained Ofdensen straight in the eye and wondering what he's gotten himself in to. He drains the bottle in one go; hoping he won't remember this come morning.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I wrote this one for Nathan/Charles Month over at BrutalBusiness, and oh what a month it was. A bit more a darker flavour than my usual work, but stories where Nathan's not the alpha male fascinate me. Reviews make me dance a merry jig.


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